


put down your lies (lay down next to mine)

by bananuh



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Interrogation, M/M, Sexual Content, Violence, it's a mafia au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:41:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26691592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananuh/pseuds/bananuh
Summary: There’s a flash of silver on his left. His gut twists once at the knife and once more at the man who’s wielding it—Keith has always been notorious for his love of blades.“You know how to hold a knife?” he asks, lips curled up in a half smirk.“Yes—” Shiro swallows and clears his throat. “Yes, sir.”The grin expands into a full smile, cheeks dimpled and eyes sharp. “Congratulations,” Keith taps the cold metal twice against his temple, “you’ve been promoted.”Shiro slinks into an intricate web of lies and criminals, winding himself deeper and deeper around the supposed center of it all: the youngest heir to the Galran Mafia, Keith.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42
Collections: Sheith Prompt Party 2020





	put down your lies (lay down next to mine)

**Author's Note:**

> due to the nature of this story centering around the mafia, there will be darker themes mentioned such as: drugs, alcohol, manipulation, violence, blood, weapons, and torture. please mind the tags!
> 
> big big smooches to the prompt party mods!! thank you so much for creating this amazing event, i love you all so much!!

The door to the contracted BMW opens and closes with a quick slam, a shock of cold air sneaking in behind. The youngest heir to the Galran Mafia slides in, smart phone glued tight to his ear. He’s dressed to the nines: designer suit tailored perfectly to fit and jet-black hair meticulously slicked back. Passing tail lights briefly silhouette the man, making dark eyes shine purple—the color conveniently matching the slight bruises littering his jaw, as if he was simply coordinating his tie to his socks.

Shiro shifts into drive and pulls off into the flow of traffic—directions to the event neatly memorized beforehand—a trick he pulls to impress his clients, though they rarely care to notice.

“Say that again,” Keith grunts into the phone, voice terse. Shiro’s eyes dance to Keith’s reflection in the rearview mirror. His notorious smirk has twisted into something nasty and cruel.

“Sacked?” He asks, then inhales sharply at whatever response he’s given. Shiro’s grip unwittingly tightens at the wheel, his thumbs tapping an anxious tune.

Sacked, wiped, axed, purged: all ambiguous words for men like Keith. One of his lackeys is dead, his washed up body dumped on a secluded beach out in Long Island—likely spotted by some unfortunate vacationers looking to escape the city. The hit was successful, and the drugs planted in his pockets will offer a decent enough story to those who pry. Shiro can’t feign his surprise even if he wants to, though relief still floods through him quick and swiftly.

“Fucking Christ,” Keith mutters through clenched teeth, followed by a longer string of profanities.

“No—” he drags a hand through his hair, ruffling the carefully manicured do. “No, there’s not enough time.”

He exhales carefully through his nose, eyes snapping shut as the voice on the other line rattles on.

“Alright. Yeah. I’ll figure something out,” he offers as a curt goodbye before slamming the smartphone down in his lap.

With a heavy sigh he drags his eyes from wherever they were trained outside and lets them wander around the car, seemingly absorbing his surroundings for the first time since he sat down.

His roaming gaze locks onto Shiro and with a sudden jerk he’s unbuckling his seatbelt and rising to grab the back of the passenger headrest, leaning all too close into Shiro’s space. A warm breath ghosts the back of Shiro’s neck, dragging a shiver down his spine.

Shiro keeps his attention trained to the road ahead but his muscles stiffen at the unexpected proximity. Cold fingers tug at his collar, toying with the tag on his suit.

Keith hums, the noise echoing the rumble of the engine beneath them. He flips the tag back in place and smooths down his collar, patting it twice. ”I guess it’ll do,” he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, and flops back into his seat.

Shiro meets his eyes in the mirror, raising a brow in question. Keith offers him a violent smile in place of an answer and turns to watch the passing scenery; all grey buildings and neon lights flashing in the dark sky as they speed further and further into the dense city.

Keith stays quiet for the remainder of the drive, his demeanor shifting and molding into the careful mask he’s known for: charismatic and collected, but his stare razor-sharp and dangerous.

Something akin to anxiety builds in Shiro’s chest as he struggles to pin down the man seated behind him. Keith taps away at his phone, sending the occasional text—but without anymore phone calls Shiro no longer has the convenient opportunity to eavesdrop and piece together more hints.

Shiro pulls into the parking lot of the oversized hotel, steering wheel whipping to bring them around to the entrance where glitzy guests are already moseying in and out.

“Park the car and get out,” Keith finally speaks up, voice serious and cold.

“Sir?” Shiro flounders at the order, brakes stuttering in response. A sharp honk rings out from the car following close behind. Keith does not repeat himself.

Shiro pulls into the closest spot available and twists the key from the ignition, engine sputtering and then shutting off. There’s a flash of silver on his left, hovering just beside his right cheek. His gut twists once at the knife and then once more at the man who’s wielding it—Keith has always been notorious for his love of blades.

“You know how to hold a knife?” he asks, lips curled up in a half smirk.

Shiro clears his throat and turns to eye the weapon more carefully. The handle points towards him, the sharp blade covered by Keith's hand.

“Yes—” Shiro swallows and clears his throat. “Yes, sir.”

The grin expands into a full smile, cheeks dimpled and eyes sharp. “Congratulations,” Keith taps the cold metal twice against his temple, “you’ve been promoted.”

—

Shiro’s first night as a bodyguard for one of the most infamous criminal syndicates is fairly uneventful—boring almost, if he was being honest. Shiro shadows around Keith as he circulates through the crowd and offers repetitive small talk and flattery. Laughter curls into the acrid cigar smoke that drifts past them, liquor and booze flowing easy amongst the throng of mobsters and aristocrats.

As the drinks grow in strength and number, the people become bolder. Men lean in close to Keith, whispering secrets into his ear, while women grab onto his forearm and lapels, nodding fervently at the nonsense he feeds them. Shiro carefully observes each interaction, the borrowed knife sitting heavy where it's tucked into his waistband—though as the night drones on it appears that no one seems to pose an actual threat to the younger man.

That is until the crowd parts to reveal four guests swiftly approaching the pair: a towering man with a wicked smile flanked by a trio of even taller women. Their rhythmic tapping of heels swells with the distant trill of a saxophone as they make their way over. Twinkling lights from the crystal chandeliers and champagne flutes catch in his silver hair and along their metallic gowns—they shine against the haze of smoke and ostentation, Lotor and his lackeys.

“Brother,” Lotor offers with the stretch of his hand and his teeth bared.

They shake, matching tattoos on their ring fingers lining up as they slide their palms together.

Keith carries the same expression he’s worn all night—but Shiro notices the way his gaze has sharpened, his guard rising as he prepares for this particular reunion.

“It’s been too long,” Lotor continues.

Keith shrugs. “Has it?”

Lotor chuckles, something forced and empty. “If I didn’t know any better I would think you’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“So I’ve heard. It seems you’ve been sticking your head in everyone’s business lately,” Lotor smiles, tilting his head. “—as have your men. So sorry to hear about Ranveig. What a pity, really.” He hovers a hand over his heart in mockery of grief.

Keith’s lip twitches as he falls prey to Lotor’s taunting.

“He was shit anyway.”

“Was he?” Lotor shrugs and twists to catch the eyes of the women behind them as they share a knowing look. When he turns back his venomous gaze ghosts past Keith and lands on Shiro for the first time that night.

“Looks like you fortunately found a replacement in due time. For the sake of your own safety, let’s hope he’s better than the last.”

It’s not a threat, not directly—the rules within their world offer the harshest of punishments for such towards a man of Keith’s stature, and Lotor’s not one to take the risk—but it’s close enough to make Shiro’s stomach tighten.

“He’s more than capable,” Keith responds, side stepping in front of Shiro to place himself back in Lotor’s line of vision. Lotor ignores him, instead offering his right hand to the rookie bodyguard.

“Your name?”

“Shiro,” he answers, shaking his hand. He attempts to break away but Lotor tightens his grip. Shiro can feel the man’s impressive strength even through the tough metal of Shiro’s prosthetic. Specks of light bounce off the polished steel and into Lotor’s dangerous stare.

“Just Shiro?”

“Just Shiro.”

“Interesting,” Lotor smiles, his tone all too curious.“What family are you from? I’m not sure I recall—I mean surely I would remember a man such as yourself, but the name—”

“If you don’t mind—“ Keith interrupts, shoulder-checking Shiro to fall back behind him, “but not all of us have a pack of watch dogs to constantly keep guard.”

“Watch your mouth, mutt,” one of his soldiers lashes back, sparking a chain reaction among the three women. They break from their careful formation behind Lotor to advance the pair.

“What’s with your hand?” another one asks, voice light and curious. It takes Shiro a moment to realize the question was pointed towards him and not Keith.

He knows of them, knows their names, but not well enough to pick out who’s who. Perhaps it’s Ezor who posed the question. Shiro can’t tell if it was motivated by malice or genuine curiosity—either way he doesn’t care. His new job titles require him to act as Keith’s shadow and protect him from any oncoming physical harm—not fall victim to goading taunts from other party-goers.

“You should tighten their leashes, Lotor. Your guards are getting bold,” he sneers, his careful mask crumbling into a sour frown.

“Trust me, our bite is far worse than our bark,” the third steps in, her face solemn but eyes ablaze. She subtly shifts a hand to her outer thigh.

Shiro finds his own fingers twitching for the blade at his back as something like a standoff forms between the two groups. Keith grabs Shiro’s elbow and reels him back.

“It’s been a pleasure, Lotor, really,” Keith contends, his voice dripping with sarcasm and irritation.

“Always, Keith. Don’t be a stranger,” Lotor croons.

Keith rolls his eyes and stomps away from the crowd. Before Shiro can turn to follow after him, Lotor catches his eye. He lifts a finger to hold him in place and sips briefly at his drink.

“Before I forget, pass a message to Keith for me, will you? Sendak has been missing him ever so dearly. He really ought to make a trip out to our eldest brother soon.”

Shiro doesn’t bother with a reply, already eager to catch up with his boss. He spots Keith still in his retreat and quickly closes the gap between them.

He quietly follows behind Keith as he re-enters the social dance of the surrounding party. Gradually Keith’s shoulders loosen and his curled up fists relax as he jumps from conversation to conversation.

While droning out the dull discussion flitting between Keith and some nameless benefactor, Shiro finds himself trained to Keith’s fingers as he flexes them at his side—his knuckles bruised and palms calloused. He bounces slightly on his heels, energetic and present.

Shiro’s heard of Keith’s temper, rumors have not been particularly kind to the man, but his inability to keep calm when faced with Lotor’s harmless taunts left a bitter taste in Shiro’s mouth. He’s glad to see Keith’s recovered quickly—quite literally bouncing back.

By the time they’re leaving the party it’s almost as if nothing even occurred. Keith hops down the stairs that lead to the valet two at a time, tapping something into his phone and laughing loudly at a comment tossed his way.

Shiro’s eyes feel heavy as the crowd dissolves around them. It’s more morning than it is night, the green dusk illuminates the city smog.

It would be all too easy to lean into the fatigue that’s seeping into Shiro’s bones like warm honey. He allows himself to let one yawn escape. But before he can even fully open his mouth, he’s closing it with a sharp clank of his teeth as his attention focuses on a steadily approaching man.

His pace is awkward and rushed as he shoulders through the herd of stumbling drunks. While everyone’s filing out of the building, he’s pushing in, heading towards the entrance, towards them.

His left arm swings irregularly at his side, rigid and bulky—likely due to a weapon clumsily tucked into the sleeve of his coat, a fist wrapped tightly around the handle. Shiro follows the man’s gaze to where it has locked itself onto Keith—beady eyes focused hard, and face sweating and flushed.

The man charges forward, cutting between Shiro and his employer—a clear lapse in judgement considering he all but places himself at Shiro’s feet.

A rusted crowbar shoots from his sleeve and high into the air above Keith’s head.

Everything freezes for a moment—even the distant bird calls and morning traffic seem to quiet down. Shiro’s metal palm meets metal bar with a shallow clang. His fingers tighten as the man before him jerks his arm, struggling against Shiro’s hold, but his strength pales in comparison.

Keith turns, eyes wide as he registers the scene behind him. His gaze dances to the weapon suspended above his head, then to the sweating assailant, and then finally to Shiro, their eyes locking.

Time starts up again, the crowd moving and pulsing to observe the drama. High pitched shrieks and startled shouts ring out as people scurry away from the assailant.

With a grunt Shiro grabs the crowbar from the man and flips it, shoving the blunt end of it into his gut. He back falls hard, right where Keith was only just standing—but Keith has already shifted to the side, seamlessly predicting Shiro’s movements.

The man struggles to sit up but Keith kicks him hard in the side and presses a foot down on his chest; the expensive leather sticking out against the cheap suit.

“Prorok,” Keith addresses him, his face grim. “Your desperation really knows no bounds.”

Prorok thrashes against the ground, drool and spit flying from his clenched teeth—the very image of a child throwing a fit, a stark difference to the once-esteemed business man. Once upon a time he sat fairly close in rank to Zarkon, but things went south when his motives were questioned. According to rumors, he attempted to fall back in favor with the family after the announcement of Zarkon’s declining health, but it’s quite obvious that he’s been met with very little success.

Keith wrinkles his nose at the scene and digs his toe harder into his sternum.

The man moves to say something but security is already pushing through and crowding the trio. They grab at the Prorok and hoist him onto his feet as he sputters to catch his breath. All too soon he’s begging and screaming, spitting profanity and nonsense at Shiro and Keith’s feet as they cuff him from behind

“What should we do with him?” One of them asks Keith. There’s a set protocol already in place for attacks such as this one, but the men at the very top have the power to bend it however they want. Any wise henchman would wait for proper direction.

Keith shrugs, “His left pinky, a right hand, maybe even the head?” Keith rubs absently at his neck, his voice dangerously cold. “I don’t care. Do whatever you want with the bastard, he’s made it more than clear that there’s no place for him in our family. We won’t make the mistake of giving him a third chance”

—

The two finally trudge back to where Shiro parked after untangling themselves from the never-ending questions and concerns spouting from the fretful crowd.

“Wipe off whatever smile you have sitting on your face,” Keith jokes, voice thick with venom and charm. He’s a few steps behind Shiro, entirely unable to see his expression, but Shiro feels the telltale twitch of the muscles in his cheek, lips turning up. He steadies his expression and flashes a blank stare to Keith.

Keith rolls his eyes and yawns loudly. “Your reflexes are decent,” he admits.

Shiro plucks the keys from his coat pocket and spins them once around his pointer finger. “Capable enough for you?”

Keith raises a brow at him and then lets out a bark of laughter.

Shiro pops the lock to the car, lights flashing. He goes to open the door behind his own first, his hand gesturing for Keith to enter.

Keith sniffs and ignores the gesture. “Fuck the backseat,” he says, the statement lacking any real heat. He steps around the car to take the front passenger seat instead.

Shiro shuts the offered door and pulls open his own, sliding behind the wheel. He eyes Keith on his side.

“I thought it made men like you feel important.”

“Men like me?” Keith repeats, ruminating on this. He takes a deep breath and turns to face him. “Tell me, what is a man like me, Shiro?”

Shiro starts the car and pulls out of the parking space, easing them onto the road.

“Men ruled by the guise of power and control, no matter how fraudulent or superficial,” he shrugs.

Keith smirks at this, nails tapping on the dashboard. “I’ll tell you about men like you. They aren’t supposed to have tongues.”

Shiro grins at this.

“There’s that smile I was talking about.”

—

The next time he hears from Keith it's an early Saturday morning. Shiro’s on his second bowl of soy milk and sugary cereal when his phone buzzes hard against the wooden table. It’s an unknown number but it doesn’t take long to recognize the voice on the other side.

“Come outside,” Keith orders, hanging up before Shiro can even think to respond.

Shiro rushes to his feet, pulling on wrinkled slacks and dumping the remains of his soggy cereal down the sink.

He jogs outside to spot Keith idling outside his apartment complex, piloted by some other nameless driver.

Keith reaches over the backseats to pop open the car door from inside.

“Get in,” he orders again. The hurried and harsh edge to his tone makes Shiro’s stomach tighten with dread.

He slides into the car and shuts the door, the car peeling away before he can even wrap the seat belt around his chest.

“What’s with the face?” Keith asks, eyes focused on whatever frown Shiro is failing to hide. “That upset it’s not you behind the wheel?”

Shiro steels his expression, gaze dancing from the unknown driver in front of them and back to Keith. The spontaneity of it all has him on edge, at least if he was driving he could convince himself he has a small hold of control in the situation.

“Relax, Shiro. You’re off the job,” Keith explains as he picks invisible dust from his nails.

Shiro doesn’t relax. Something brews within his stomach, creeping up the back of his next.

“Then why am I here?” He presses, tone edging a dangerous line for a man still technically speaking with his boss.

Keith looks at him like it should be obvious. “I'm taking you shopping.”

“What?” Shiro looks down at his lap, eyeing his dark outfit.

Keith quirks an eyebrow at him, eyes scaling his body. Shiro feels his cheeks flush slightly in defense.

“I own plenty of black clothes,” Shiro proclaims, a different kind of dread filling him now.

“Just because you’re a shadow doesn’t mean you’re any shadow.”

“I didn’t realize this promotion came with a uniform.”

“How else will people know you’re mine?”

—

Keith drags them into some overpriced and heavily perfumed store. Shiro barely has both feet past the heavy glass doors before sales associates are rushing them, greeting Keith by his full name and offering enthusiastic pleasantries. Another assistant hurries behind them with a tray of water and champagne for the pair. Keith grabs a water while Shiro opts for the alcoholic choice. The bubbles burn his throat as he mentally surrenders himself to whatever Keith has planned for the course of their day.

Every time Shiro presumes he’s finished in the dressing room, Keith’s there at the door with another armload of jackets and pants to try on. He’s dragged before a room of mirrors, tailors and assistants tugging at his sleeves and sticking him with pins. Most questions are directed to Keith, but occasionally they turn to Shiro and ask him how he feels or what he thinks.

He rarely has a response for them, his mind still reeling to catch up to how he got from his kitchen table this morning to here: standing side by side with the son of a crime lord as he holds an array of golden and brown ties to his face, attempting to match one to the color of Shiro’s eyes.

Shiro’s been fitted for a suit before, he still remembers the first time his father forced him into a mall to find a proper outfit for some distant family wedding or funeral, the overenthusiastic sales clerk pinching his cheeks and ruffling his hair and droning on about markdowns and back to school sales—but this is something else entirely.

This is an exuberance of wealth, a contest of luxury and power.

Keith plays a role, similar to the one from their last night out. Business transactions and alliances are formed and tested around the guise of shopping. Keith bumps into colleagues, sharing anecdotes and easy laughter. He accepts underserved gifts from desperate managers, shaking their hands slowly and steadily holding their gaze as he offers his gratitude. Even strangers seem drawn to him, whether it be his style or money that reels them in—perhaps both. Maybe a blind eye can still detect the sheer amount of power radiating from the man. With his support and kinship comes a promise of protection and privilege against a cruel world—who wouldn’t want him in their pocket.

Yes, Keith plays a role, and now he’s outfitting Shiro with a specially made costume to join his very cast.

By their fifth or sixth stop—truthfully he’s lost count by now—Shiro finds himself stuck behind an array of sunglasses, taking the ones Keith hands him and trying them on, waiting for his approval: either a quick nod ‘yes’ or wrinkle of his nose ‘no’.

Keith hesitates with a particular pair of tortoise-shell frames. He turns to eye Shiro in the mirror before them, his gaze dancing around Shiro’s face in the reflection

“How old are you?” Keith asks suddenly, turning back to face him. “It’s just—your hair is pretty deceiving, you know?”

Keith reaches up to tug at the silver bangs. Shiro jerks away from the touch to catch his own reflection. He smooths his forelock back down, momentarily self-conscious of the strike of white against the dark color of his natural hair.

“I’m twenty-nine,” he answers, slightly defensive.

Keith seems shocked by this, his brow raising slightly.

“How much stress does a twenty-nine year-old have to go through to grey that quickly?” he jokes, voice noticeably light for the weighty question.

Shiro doesn’t play along. With a glare he hands him back the shades he just tried on.

Keith winces playfully. “Tough subject, I guess.” He taps him on the head with the glasses. Shiro’s frown deepens.

“Hey, cheer up, grumpy. It could be worse,” Keith gestures at him. “At least I didn’t ask about your arm.”

Shiro looks down at his prosthetic before catching Keith’s stare again. He’s toeing a precarious line, testing the waters, testing Shiro’s reaction, seeing just how far he can push. Shiro swallows the down the irritation seated in his chest—most of it caused by the long day of shopping than anything else.

He shrugs. “There’s your answer.”

Keith seems to sit with that for a moment, pursing his lips. He opens his mouth to say something but quickly abandons that plan. Instead he nods and turns, pulling out his wallet to pay for the haul of new clothes piled up at the register.

Shiro twists his head back to the mirror, eyeing his reflection once more. He doesn’t blame people for the curiosity, the questions are nothing new to the man, and talking about his past doesn’t normally bother him—but he has to keep Keith from digging in too hard and finding a crack in his foundation. The less intrigued he stays, the better it will be for them both.

—

The next time Shiro picks up Keith, he has the passenger door open and waiting, Keith smiles at this—his face earnest and bright. He slides into his seat and lifts his shoes up to rest them against the dashboard.

Shiro rolls his eyes and shuts Keith’s door before walking around to his own.

Keith taps an anxious tune against the plastic glove box as Shiro pulls into traffic.

“I have an important dinner tonight with an even more important client,” he announces, his voice proud.

Shiro hums, indifferent to the man’s blatant enthusiasm. He was already informed of all the important details when an assistant called to schedule the meeting earlier in the week.

“Very important,” Keith reiterates.

“Congratulations?” Shiro offers, hoping to satisfy whatever it is that Keith is seeking.

Keith shakes his head, ignoring the poorly directed praise. “Practice with me,” he insists.

Shiro glances at him, eyebrows raised.

“Come on.” He points to Shiro. “You be the client. Just pretend to interview me.”

“I don’t know anything about your—” Shiro waves a hand around, floundering for the right word, “—business.”

Keith chuckles. “You don’t need to. You’re just a man with a lot of money who refuses to let it go.”

Shiro mulls the request over, his eyes trained ahead at the never-ending sea of red brake-lights. They both have a slow drive ahead of them as he edges them closer and closer downtown. He supposes it can’t be worse than the symphony of car horns that’s currently filling the quiet.

“What a pleasure it is to meet with you this evening, Sir. How have you been?” Keith interjects, starting them off.

“No,” Shiro quickly responds, shutting him down.

“Shiro—” Keith whines, misinterpreting his response.

“No, it’s—I’m refusing, like you said,” Shiro explains.

Keith blinks at him and then shakes his head, smiling slightly at Shiro’s willingness to indulge him in his game of pretend. He clears his throat and straightens in his seat.

“How about you and me…“ Keith clasps his hands together as he carefully picks through his words. “You know what? How about we just cut to the chase?”

Shiro’s lips curl upwards before he can steady his expression back to impassivity.

“No.”

“I completely understand your hesitation, Sir. But with me, I can—”

“No—”

They continue on for the majority of the drive, Keith’s responses growing in absurdity as he’s forced to come up with counterpoint to counterpoint to the broken record that is Shiro’s caricature of a business tycoon.

Keith’s tone is light and joyous—youthful, if anything—perhaps accurately reflecting his age for the first time since Shiro’s come to know him.

They pull into a parking space behind the restaurant. Shiro cuts the engine as Keith unbuckles and stretches his arms out in front of him.

“Thank you, Shiro,” he responds with an easy smile. “At least I know that whatever happens tonight cannot possibly be worse than how that just went.”

A host leads the pair to the far back of the restaurant, weaving them through dingy hallways and past tables of old men—their cautionary stares catching in the flickering candlelight as they follow Keith’s path.

The dated shiplap and maroon carpet stink with decades of sautéed garlic and cigarette smoke. Low-pitched murmurs and repetitive clangs of steak knives cutting into plates fill the shadowy atmosphere of the antiquated Italian joint.

The table is set for four people but Shiro knows neither are for him. Instead he stands off to the side with his back to the wall, placing Keith in his direct line of view. He observes the younger man as he settles into his seat and opens up one the menus. Shiro quietly hopes the quick meal he shoveled down earlier will last him through the night.

A waiter comes by to present a collection of their house wines, offering a tray of them all for Keith to taste and pick a favorite. Keith declines the tasting, pointing to something else in the menu instead. The waiter removes Keith’s wine glass from the table and replaces it with a simple tumbler instead. By the time he’s topped off the glass with sparkling water, the remainder of the party has arrived.

Keith stands to carefully shake each of their hands. Their conversation doesn’t quite reach Shiro from his position across the room but occasionally he catches a stray word or phrase.

They stick to introductions and pleasantries until their main courses arrive. The eldest of the group cuts into his bloody steak and clears his throat, initiating a change in tone.

Keith’s one to lead with his charm when commandeering a crowd, but he’s mellowed himself out for this particular affair, choosing instead to highlight his intelligence and poise.

He speaks slowly, opting to ignore the plate of trout before him in favor of gesturing his ideas with his hands.

Shiro passes the time by piecing together the small bits he’s caught from the men. It seems they’re in the oil trade, likely fairly large players, and they’re very hesitant to welcome new changes to the business—nothing exactly surprising, but Shiro hopes Keith can be an exception to their position.

It seems they’ve landed on a mutual decision by the time their empty plates have been removed and their wine glasses drained—but Shiro still can’t tell if Keith was successful or not. Their expressions are noticeably flat, but they’ve been so throughout the whole evening—Shiro’s not sure if these men have ever smiled in their life.

They turn down the waiter’s offer of dessert, opting to stand and end the night there. Hints of disappointment rises in Shiro’s chest.

They say their goodbyes to Keith as he shakes each of their hands once more, and then they’re gone, a sizable crew of aides following closely behind them.

Keith’s turned away from him so can’t gauge his expression. The waiter turns to Keith to briefly say something in his ear. Keith nods and moves to follow him before pausing to twist his gaze to Shiro.

He offers two thumbs up and a genuine smile—providing both an answer to how the meeting went and clarification that he shouldn’t need to follow.

Shiro nods at the request, his chest lightening. He shifts his weight on his feet as he watches Keith enter the swinging door to the kitchen, his calves cramping slightly from holding still for so long.

Only with them both gone is Shiro now able to realize how empty the restaurant has become—from his vantage point it seems he’s the only one left in the room.

The meeting must’ve dragged through their regular business hours, the place closing around them as Keith and the men finished their meals and conversation—but when he glances to check his watch it’s barely even that late.

Shiro leans forward to peek around the corner at the other dining area. There’s nothing, no one around—not even a lone staff member wiping tables or trailing around with a mop.

Shiro swallows his anxiety and checks his watch again. Maybe they shut the place down as a security precaution for their esteemed guests. But if safety was really such a concern, wouldn’t they have done so before they all arrived?

Shiro steps away from his assigned spot. Even his pacing footsteps against the carpeted floors sound loud against the radiating silence.

Shiro nears the door he watched Keith disappear into just minutes earlier. No one is here to technically stop him from following, but if his growing unease turns out to be all for nothing, he would risk jeopardizing Keith’s meticulously crafted reputation, as well as his own job.

He needs to have an impenetrable excuse for going against a given order, and he’s not nearly foolish enough to believe that ‘a room feeling too empty’ would make the cut.

So he hesitates, his feet planted just before the swinging door. The circular window doesn’t offer much save for the view of the dim hallway that leads the kitchen—but he watches it attentively anyways.

He strains to hear any other sounds that could offer a clue to what’s going on. He thinks he picks up a few muffled clangs sounding from the other room, but such sounds are common for an industrial kitchen, they offer little in piecing together anything substantial.

As each minute passes without Keith’s return, his growing anxiety begins to feel less and less misplaced.

His hands hover against the wooden door, itching to just barge through, but he can’t decide the best course of action. He could always leave the building, check around the back to see if he spots anyone else around—but it feels too risky to leave now. If something’s actually happened to Keith under his eye…

He didn’t prepare for this. He didn’t even think to prepare for this—not with Keith nor his own team.

He despises the uncertainty of it all.

Grinding his teeth, he begs for a sign—anything that could upset the scales in his mind and push him into movement.

And maybe just this once the universe decides to throw him a bone because the door to the kitchen wobbles. He’s not sure if it’s just his eyes playing a trick on him, but slowly a slim stream of light begins to bleed into the hallway.

Shiro holds his breath as he watches the stream grow wider until the door finally pushes open to reveal the waiter from before. Shiro tries to peer behind the shadow of his body to catch a view of the kitchen or the silhouette of Keith following behind, but the door snaps shut before his eyes can even adjust to the shift in light.

The man takes a step forward before freezing suddenly, his gaze trained straight ahead—right at Shiro.

Their eyes meet and even through the warp of the glass and dim lighting Shiro spots the exact moment worry explodes across the waiter’s face. His eyebrows jump to his hairline and his mouth opens in a muffled shout.

Keith isn’t behind him. Keith isn’t coming.

The waiter turns around to push back from where he came but Shiro is already shoving after him, bounding across the hall in as few strides as physically possible.

He bursts into the kitchen, eyes dancing under the bright light as he struggles to rapidly absorb his surroundings.

A cacophony of shouts arise at his intrusion, two bulky figures already moving to charge him from his right, but Shiro’s attention has tunneled itself onto Keith and he’s only barely processed the sight of him—red faced and pressed up against the wall by tight hands wrapped around his neck—before he’s moving too.

He crashes into the mass of the man that’s holding him, tackling them both onto the polished tile. Shiro lets go of his rational mind, letting muscle memory and adrenaline take hold of the fight beneath him. He digs hard joints into muscle and flesh, twisting and kicking at whatever his limbs can reach, hacking tough steel against brittle bone.

Arms grab at him to lift him off of the now motionless body but they quickly lose purchase of his thrashing body. He falls, his head knocking hard against the ground. Stars shoot across his vision as the remaining men close in on him once more.

He fights with everything he knows against the tangle of flailing limbs and heavy boots. Blood and sweat drips into his eyes and mouth as the three of them struggle against the floor. His only clue that Keith’s even still alive and breathing are the horrible, racking coughs that sound from the corner of the room.

Shiro brings a closed fist down onto someone’s chest and the fingers pulling tight at his collar finally drop free. He pushes away from groaning and wrangling bodies, slipping in puddles of blood as he struggles to find his footing against the slippery tiles.

A hand wraps around his ankle, almost upending him completely, but he shakes off the weak hold and stomps down hard against the fingers. They don’t reach for him again.

He straightens himself, his head spinning as he metabolizes the sight of men lying before him, each in various stages of consciousness.

He whips around to search out Keith amongst the chaos—but comes face to face with a massive butcher’s knife instead.

Shiro freezes. His breath heaving in his lungs.

The sharp tip of the blade of the hovers just centimeters from his brow, too close for his eyes to properly focus on it.

“Get down. Get on—get on your knees!” The stuttering voice attached to the other side of the knife orders.

Shiro lowers himself carefully, desperate more than ever to not slip against the sticky floor. The blade follows his descent and then dips lower—falling from his line of vision as it comes to ghost over the side of his neck.

Shiro's gaze shifts to the wrists before him, climbing up the white of his sleeve, to his collar, to his face.

He would laugh if it wouldn’t cost him the integrity of his jugular.

“Just…don’t… move…” the waiter’s voice wavers in fear as he peers down at him. This isn’t a world he knows, that’s more than obvious. He was likely just dragged into tonight with an envelope of full dirty money. Fierce tremors rack through his hands and subsequently the blade pointed at Shiro’s neck.

Shiro fights the desire to flinch away from the unpredictable path of the weapon. He knows he can disarm the man, the blade can only do so much damage to the palm of his right hand. He just needs to keep the both of them calm. He just needs some time. He just needs the walls to stop fucking spinning—

“Shiro!”

That’s the only warning he’ll get. Shiro rolls to the side opposite of the knife. He doesn’t watch the heavy pan come careening down but he hears plenty with the dull thud of it meeting the man’s skull, shortly followed by another thud of his body hitting the ground.

A hand fists into the fabric at his shoulder, pulling him upwards.

“We have to go, Shiro.”

—

They help each other into the car, the parking as empty as the rest of the building.

Shiro misses the ignition twice before the key finally lands and he can twist the engine to life.

“I guess the night did up going worse,” Keith jokes. It’s not funny—not when it's delivered by his mangled, ruined voice.

Shiro ignores him. “Where should I take you?” He demands, his tone severe.

Keith thinks for a moment, one hand holding his swollen neck.

“A friend’s. He’s a doctor, or something like that. I’ll show you the way.”

—

Shiro takes a turn too sharp into the driveway Keith points out, only barely missing the mailbox, and jostling their throbbing aches.

They both sport a variety of limps as they cross the unkempt lawn to reach the front door. Keith leans against the wall to jam the doorbell over and over.

A muffled voice shouts at them that he’s coming as he hurries to meet them. The door swings open, spilling warm air onto the shivering pair, and revealing Keith’s supposed friend. Shiro doesn’t recognize him from any of the Galran files he’s dug through—his face is plain enough that he could’ve simply forgotten his photo, but the sheer height of the man would’ve caught his attention—Shiro’s certain—he towers over them both.

“Keith!” The man shouts in pleasant surprise before turning to Shiro. “And Keith’s… friend?”

Keith doesn’t offer an explanation, instead ducking beneath the man’s arm and into the house.

He smiles at Keith’s dismissal before turning back to Shiro.

“Whoa, wait! Are you okay?” The man asks, eyeing the gash on Shiro’s temple, or what he assumes is such as it spent the entire drive dripping blood into his left eye.

“He’s the one who needs medical attention.” Shiro responds, nodding to the inside of the house.

“Keith?” His eyes widen in surprise and he turns to run after him.

Shiro eventually catches up, passing them in the kitchen. Keith’s recounting his side of the story as gloved fingers poke at angry, red marks around his neck.

The man points out the bathroom when Shiro turns down his offer for help once he’s down with Keith.

Shiro shuts the door to the small room, his pounding headache grateful for the moment of darkness he takes before flipping on the lights.

It’s not like he was expecting anything good to look back at him, but the state of his reflection still sends a shock down his spine.

Dark bruises are already forming when he was hit the hardest—his hair matted and his clothes trashed. Luckily the black material covering the majority of his body hides any rust stain of blood, but he can still feel it on him, the damp material and copper smell sticking to his skin.

Visually, the worst is the wound at his forehead. The skin unevenly split and swelling—probably the result of a flying knuckle or elbow. Fortunately, it’s not deep enough to require stitches. Unfortunately, the process of tilting his head to get a better view of it revealed an awfully sore spot at the base of his skull—he doesn’t have time to deal with the disorientation of a concussion.

Shiro doesn’t bother wasting time checking under his clothes, he’ll do a proper pat down when he’s back home. If he has a bruised rib, he has a bruised rib, there’s nothing he can do for it now. Instead he spends the majority of his time just scrubbing away at the dried blood caked onto his hands and under his nails. He cleans out the cut above his eye, covering it with a few plasters he found under the sink when snooping for pain medication.

Keith slides the door open when Shiro’s washing his hands once more. He hands him a fresh towel before leaning against the edge of the tub, meeting Shiro’s gaze in the mirror.

“I need to go speak with my father.”

Shiro nods at him.

The drive to the estate is silent. Shiro swallows the multitude of questions he has for Keith—content to just let him rest his throat for now.

After a series of security checkpoints, they pulls up to the family’s private entrance. Shiro shifts them into park, the engine sputtering off. Keith reaches over to cover Shiro’s hand with his own as he grabs for the key.

He shakes his head. “Go home, Shiro. It’ll be awhile.”

**Author's Note:**

> chapter two will be up tomorrow :-)


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